He walked over.
“So,” Daniel said, voice rising, “you gonna explain why you stole a car just to look important?”
The music dipped slightly as the DJ switched tracks. The timing was perfect. Conversations around them slowed. People sensed something unfolding and leaned in.
“I didn’t steal anything,” the man said evenly.
Daniel scoffed. “Of course you didn’t. Let me guess—your ‘friend’ let you borrow it?”
A few people laughed.
Daniel stepped closer. “You know what people like you don’t understand? This isn’t a costume party. You don’t just put on money and walk in.”
The man didn’t raise his voice. “You should probably ask your friend before you keep talking.”
That irritated Daniel more than anger would have.
He lifted his glass.
“This is my friend’s party,” Daniel said. “My friend’s car. And you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Then, slowly, deliberately, he tipped the glass.
Red wine spilled down the man’s shirt, soaking the fabric, dripping onto the concrete, splashing near the pool’s edge. A sharp collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Phones came up instantly.
Daniel stepped back, satisfied. “Get out. Now.”
For a moment, no one moved.
The man wiped his face with the back of his hand. Wine stained his collar, his chest, his cuffs. He didn’t shout. He didn’t curse.
He looked around once, then back at Daniel.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said.
Daniel laughed. “You already made one when you pulled up in a car that wasn’t yours.”
A woman nearby whispered, “This is going to get ugly.”
That was when a voice cut through the noise from the entrance.
“What the hell is going on?”
Heads turned.
A man in his early forties walked in, tall, composed, wearing a tailored jacket that didn’t need branding to signal money. The conversations stopped entirely now. People recognized him.
It was Marcus.
